Christmas Child: an absolutely heartbreaking and emotional Victorian romance

by Carol Rivers

  Part Five

  Home

  November 1897

  ‘Clear ‘orf, you perishing nuisance,’ yelled the angry man as Ettie rifled inside the stinking bin. There was nothing there but mouldy skins of vegetables, clumped together with fat. But she always held a faint hope she would find something edible.

  The café owner lifted a potato sack, twirled it above his head and took aim. Although there were only a few rotted potatoes left inside, the weight winded Ettie and she went sprawling across the alley. Hard wooden pallets broke her fall, their spiky edges digging into her skin. ‘You’re no better than a bleedin’ animal. If I see you round here again, I’ll call the coppers.’

  Ettie picked herself up and ran away, leaving the mouth-watering smell of the café’s open kitchen door behind her. She had been foolish to come here in broad daylight and should have waited until dark. But hunger had driven her to take chances. And today the emptiness of her belly, which had not truly been satisfied in many days, had a particular quality. She could not quite say what it was. Only that it made her so desperate to feed, she would eat anything, no matter what it looked like or where it came from.

  For five long months, she had trudged the streets of the East End searching for work and shelter. But who would employ a filthy and homeless girl who wore a workhouse tunic and raggedy shawl? None of the factories would consider her; even the match and rope factories had their standards to keep.

  The great River Thames was the only provider for an army of half-starved skeletons who scavenged its shores for items lost in the mud. Ettie divided her days between begging on the busy thoroughfares of the metropolis and the watery banks of the city’s fast-flowing river.

  Now, as Ettie trudged on, a cold mist descended. A blanket so thick it threatened a river fog. She passed the many shadowy figures of scrawny, sick children who like herself were born from misery, ignorance and vice. She thought often of her mother, who had died in Sister Patrick’s arms. Had she, too, suffered such shame? With no one to care or help her? And only a nun to join her in the last moments of life.

  A frozen tear slipped down Ettie’s cheek. She tried to wipe it away but her fingers were too sore. She caught sight of herself in a shop window; an unrecognizable heap of rags with a head of hair so entangled, wild and knotted that she looked inhuman.

  ‘Am I really me?’ she croaked. ‘Henrietta O’Reilly, Colleen O’Reilly’s daughter?’

  Ettie turned away, attempting to step over the ditch into which the drains bubbled and gurgled. She remembered the sound from the tunnels and stepped back again. All around her there was the bobbing, endless tide of human waste passing a few feet away.

  Ettie hurried on, desperate to escape the hideous slums and misery of the people squashed inside them; innocent victims of the poverty into which they had been born.

  Where was Lady Marsden’s charity now? Ettie wondered. Why was she not here, on the streets of the East End, to say a kind word or show a good deed to the impoverished and desperate of London?

  Suddenly she found herself by the wooden bridge that crossed to the Isle of Dogs. Here was the greatest poverty and unfairness of all. One road led to the affluent district of Poplar where fine homes like Chancery House stood in its elegant surroundings. The other led to the remains of a convent orphanage whose holy truths had been its undoing.

  Sick at heart and in body, Ettie knew she could go no further. Stumbling to the wooden bridge, she crept unsteadily down its bank to the muddy stream that would eventually lead to the river’s estuary.

  Tonight she would sleep here under the little bridge. Here in this dark space, where she might rest awhile.

  The fog thickened and she curled tighter into her corner. The fingers she had used to forage were so painful, she could not move them. Her legs felt as numb as wood. A tight band encircled her ribs. When she coughed, a sticky knot of green glue came into her throat.

  Ettie began to feel light-headed. Memories came bursting into her mind like whirling dervishes; children she remembered from her wanderings, half-naked and freezing in the cold. Young women crying out for alms, their tortured bodies no longer saleable. Young men deformed by diseases of the muscle and lung. The aged, too sick or disabled to crawl to the warmth of a brazier fire.

  She shook her head a little, yet still the visions attacked her. A fiery heat burned through her and she trembled violently. Closing her eyes, she finally slept. But soon the nightmares returned and there was Clara, claimed by her addiction. And Lucas! She saw as clearly as she had seen him then, his sweat-drenched body and the cavernous pouches beneath his sunken cheeks. She heard their cries for help as clearly as if they were lying beside her.

  Ettie cried out, too. She was broken by their agony. She could not help them. For how could she even help herself?

  Then, from out of the fog beneath the bridge, walked Rose. Her tall, stately figure so graceful and proud, that even the fog dared not block her path. Ettie tried to tell her about Lucas and Clara. They were there, in the darkness waiting … needing her help.

  But Rose raised her finger gently. ‘Hush now, Ettie. I know.’

  Ettie felt as though she was drenched in love; a peace that flowed through her as Rose bent close.

  ‘Buck up Ettie! Show the world your mettle.’ Her words were as clear as they had been at the salon.

  ‘I’m tired,’ Ettie whispered.

  ‘I’ll help you.’ Rose held out her hands. ‘Come home.’

  Ettie began to cough, trying to resist the band that tightened around her heart. ‘But where?’ she murmured. ‘Where is home?’

  ‘I’ll show you the way,’ Rose beckoned.

  But the night grew darker and colder. And suddenly Rose was gone, as though she had never been there. Desperation filled Ettie once more. A fit of coughing seized her. She fell forward, ejecting the poisonous bile from her mouth.

  When the choking was over, she looked up to the perfect, velvet blue sky where a sea of stars glittered brightly above the earth. Towards heaven.

  Ettie knew then, with a joyful certainty, that at last she was going home.

  Chapter 68

  The old man shifted uneasily, as if something had woken him from his dream. Though what the dream was about he could not say – only that he knew he must rouse and put on his clothes, the same working duffle and trousers that he had used to garden in for many years. They were patched in many places, but serviceable, and would do him until the end. Which, he felt, could not be far off.

  He had reached his eightieth year. Passed it in fact. But here he was, still on this earth; a caretaker, a groundsman, a gardener and a grave digger. Just one grave, mind. And he visited her grave daily. He spoke to Sister Ukunda about old times; the orphanage and the Sisters of Clemency and the years he had spent in their service. But although he knew she listened, she never answered him back.

  A good woman that.

  Arthur hauled himself from the bed and pulled on his pants, grinning toothlessly at the fact that it would only be the Almighty who’d shift him from this spot. The bastard bishop had tried. And look where it got him. The nuns had tried. And look where it got them. The weather had tried. And almost succeeded last winter. And the coppers had tried. Just a little but not too much. Not to such a degree as to move him on.

  He served their purpose. And his purpose was to care for this unholy lot of weeds and tangles that were fast becoming his greatest foe. Old bones did not make new ones. And the jingle-jangle of his aches and pains lately, told him that the land would win in the end. Out of them all, it would be nature the victor.

  But so what? It was here he had spent a lifetime, assisting quietly in the background as the nuns did their very best to save humanity. Another smile lifted his white-whiskered jaw into a semblance of amusement. For hadn’t he done the very same of late? To the north of the plot lived Lofty, all five feet five of skin and bone. He’d escaped the debtors’ men a year ago and was still leading them a merry dance. His one comp
anion was his horse, who, even older than Lofty himself, grazed down the weeds and brambles, and sometimes was harnessed to Arthur’s cart for a trip to the market. Camped by the southern wall, a hundred feet past the burned-down schoolroom, the gypsy was no hinderance.

  Then there were the two imps. Well, what was he supposed to do about those? Couldn’t be more than six or seven. You could barely see ‘em in the day. Blink and you’d miss their shadows. But they were there alright. They could trap a rabbit all by themselves. He’d found the bones of fowl and fish, dead heads with eyeballs glaring up at you. Must’ve gone down to the wooden bridge and done a bit of fishing.

  He’d caught them kipping in the long grass and up a tree and even in the cinders. They painted their faces black with the soot and tried to scare him. But, he’d whistle his way past and raised his hand in salute. They’d giggle like kids did, though whether girls or boys, he couldn’t tell. But they were happy to be free and he hoped they’d stay that way.

  Arthur gulped down his breakfast, a crust of bread and crackle of bacon. He always put out the rind. And it was gone in a split second. But this morning, he only had mouldy cheese, so he carved off a sliver, grinned at his generosity and chucked it out of the window.

  He blinked and might have missed the flash. But he’d seen the little devils. The cheese was gone and they knew he knew it was them.

  He knew alright. And he wished them luck.

  By the time he stepped out of the old laundry to be greeted by a frost as keen as a carving knife, he was ready to begin his day. Stamping his feet to warm them, he lifted the scythe from his empty cart. Turning unhurriedly, he almost jumped out of his skin. Two small black faces with wide white eyeballs appeared from a bush.

  ‘Strike a light,’ he gasped and jumped a step back.

  The faces disappeared, only to reappear in a thicket. The shrub did a little dancing and shivering, so that the frost skittered down to lay glistening on the ground. The eyeballs emerged under haystacks of hair, fixing him intently.

  ‘I know you’re there,’ grumbled Arthur. ‘You nearly stopped this old heart of mine with your antics.’

  The bare branches rustled. More frost fell. Arthur swished the drip from his nose. ‘Come out you little buggers. Show yourselves for once.’

  Arthur hadn’t a hope they would. But even so, he couldn’t be angry. They were wild, untamed; and he’d long ago learned to appreciate nature in its natural state.

  ‘Well, you can both sod off if you ain’t answering me. I’ve work to do.’ He marched away, making for the hill that led down to the gentle slope of the grave. But before he’d gone many paces, there they were again; two faces black with cinders, bodies swathed in bug-ridden rags, and no boots at all!

  ‘Gawd blimey!’ exclaimed Arthur. ‘Boys, ain’t you? Twins?’

  They stared at him and he stared back. ‘What’s your names?’ he demanded impatiently, not meaning to lift the scythe as they both hopped back.

  ‘I ain’t about to hurt you,’ he said. Throwing caution to the wind, he rested the tool against the nearest tree. ‘So what is it you want of me?’ he asked in a kinder tone. ‘You kip on my land and you know I lets you. You know I chucks out stuff to fill your bellies. And we all know you do a bunk the moment a copper pokes his nose in.’

  The two heads bobbed, enough to let Arthur know they’d understood.

  ‘Ain’t you going to say nothin’ at all?’ he demanded.

  Two identical mouths opened.

  He gave an irritated frown. ‘Listen, if you want more to eat, this time you’ll have to ask me for it, right? Don’t take much to offer a word of thanks.’

  But all that happened was the mouths opened wider. Arthur was about to repeat his request, when something caught his eye. Something he didn’t like the look of at all. He took a cautious step closer. When he saw what he saw, his stomach turned.

  ‘Christ Almighty,’ he gulped. ‘You’re mutes?’

  Two heads nodded and two mouths closed.

  ‘Somebody done it to you?’ he said, clearing his throat.

  The nods assured him he had guessed correctly. But it took him a moment or two to compose himself, for the sight of the poor little perishers’ tongues with their sliced off tips had given him quite a turn.

  ‘Can’t you say nothing at all?’ he enquired. But nothing was returned. Only a pointing finger, that hailed him, indicating he was to follow.

  To Arthur’s own surprise he found himself doing as they’d bid him, going past the old laundry and the cart, to the gate that led to the big wide world outside and the little wooden bridge at the end of the lane.

  Chapter 69

  There were voices as she stirred, though to whom they belonged she could not tell. The light dazzled her and was so bright, she let her lids close sleepily together. If this was heaven then it was a bumpier ride than she’d expected. Her head bounced a little, not too much as to be uncomfortable; in fact, the motion was soothing. She knew she lay at an angle and wondered if the body she had left behind under the little wooden bridge, resembled the same immortal shape as her spirit.

  Sister Patrick had said she was certain that on the Christmas Day she had found Colleen O’Reilly, she had seen a pure soul, lit up by the presence of God and all his angels. And when her mother’s earthly remains lay lifeless in the bed of white snow, a beautiful apparition raised out of it that was beyond the nun’s words.

  Are angels whispering to me now, Ettie wondered? The same angels sent by my mother to escort me to St Peter’s gates? Ettie felt a wonder fill her, a bliss so perfect that she almost opened her eyes.

  But the sensation drifted and what returned in its place filled her with fear. The fever that had burned in her body as she lay in that dark corner under the bridge, ignited again. This time, it raged through muscle and skin and into her bones. Would it soon reach her heart and switch it off?

  Beset by terror, Ettie felt the drowning phlegm fill her lungs and creep slowly upward. Surely this could not be heaven? Could it be hell? she asked in confusion. Had her earthly sins brought her to this, to face judgement far harsher than Mr Gane and Mrs Powell’s? Would Head appear soon, her piercing eyes full of accusation?

  ‘A thief,’ Ettie cried out deliriously. ‘I am a thief, to be judged and sentenced!’

  Her eyes flew open. Her senses reeled. She was lying in a cart and looking up at the grey sky. Two faces bore down on her, with eyes wide and white as saucers and cheeks blackened by limbo’s soot!

  She choked on the rising tide in her throat. Her gaze clouded. How had she come to this? Never to see her mother again or to know the ecstasy she had been promised by the nuns?

  Her questions were answered unexpectedly. For with gentle consideration, came the touch of little fingers around hers. Each of her hands, together with its sores and scabs and scratches, lay in the tender clutch of another’s. Comforting. Reassuring. Squeezes of affection from the ghosts of her childhood. Yes, the children had come to guide her!

  In her hour of need, God had sent the orphans.

  Chapter 70

  The day before Christmas Eve

  Ettie opened her eyes to a room she had never seen before. She could see a dresser, bearing a blue and white china bowl and a pitcher with a delicate, curled spout. Winter green holly, its spikes and proud red berries curved over a glass vase. A bright, square window was dappled with winter’s snow. Curtains … pretty flowered curtains much like the ones she remembered … but from where? And, a chair; a small wooden chair with a cushioned seat.

  She was in a bed, soft and warm, with her body tucked beneath a coverlet. Her hands were at her sides, swathed in bandages. The door … ajar, as if someone might be listening outside. And then came a smell, warm and familiar, drifting in. A broth perhaps, wholesome and nourishing.

  Ettie rolled her tongue across her dry lips. She watched the flakes of white dance on the window; building a snowy bridge across the sill …

  A bridge?

  A wood
en one. Where the water beneath had flowed down to the great river.

  A cough tickled at her throat. Her chest was tender, as though she had suffered a blow. She managed to move her legs and watched thankfully, as her toes lifted the coverlet, one bob, then two, then three and four.

  The room came at last into proper focus; a clean and delightful room, as though someone had arranged it especially. Was she back at Chancery House? But no, it was impossible. This was not the attic. Memories cascaded back of the night she found Head waiting in her room. Of her accusations of thievery and her disgraced dismissal by Mr Gane and Mrs Powell.

  Ettie touched the top of her nightdress; a white, soft linen with lacy frills. Who had dressed her in this? Why was she lying here in this comfortable bed, and not under the bridge, where she had expected to meet her fate?

  A movement alerted her. She looked anxiously at the door. A face peered in, eyes wide and expectant. Terence crept forward, as though fearing to disturb her. He was dressed in a clean white apron with his cap stuck deep in the pocket. In his big hand he held a cup and saucer.

  ‘You’ve woken at last!’ he exclaimed, lowering the teacup to the bedside table. ‘I can’t believe it!’

  ‘Terence?’ Ettie muttered sleepily.

  ‘That’s me, your old pal.’ He inspected her keenly.

  ‘Where am I?’

  ‘In the safe care of yours truly, m’dear.’

  Ettie tried to sit up. But her hands were too painful.

  ‘Let me help,’ Terence said, assisting her. ‘A joy it is to see you awake.’

  Ettie smiled drowsily as she rested against the pillow. ‘I thought I’d gone to heaven or perhaps to hell.’

  ‘Good grief, no,’ Terence assured her as he pulled up the chair. ‘The pneumonia gave you those sinister visions.’ He lifted the cup to her lips and Ettie sipped. The tea was very welcome.